


Murder Gone Sour

by ChibiDawn23



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23928202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiDawn23/pseuds/ChibiDawn23
Summary: A worker is found dead in the barley pile at Parkington Whiskey. Suspicion is placed on the man's best friend, the hard-nosed foreman, and the callous owner of the distillery. As Murdoch, George, and John follow the clues, they find there may be far more brewing than malt whiskey. Murdoch/Julia, Nina/George. Please see author's note before you ding me for canon compliance.
Relationships: Nina Bloom/George Crabtree, William Murdoch/Julia Ogden
Comments: 11
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story doesn't take place any particular place in MM canon. I chose to have Nina and George together and added in John Brackenreid because they help move the narrative.

The sun was scarcely up as Connor O'Neill punched his card and made his way into the grain storehouse at Parkington Whiskey. The industrial area was coming alive; whistles cut through the morning air and a steamship's horn sounded from the harbor. Around Connor, men were calling hello and cursing the night before in a variety of languages: Connor heard his own native Gaelic mixed in with Slavic, Polish, English, and a smattering of others.

He waited for his supervisor, a tall, burly Canadian by the name of Alexander Martin, to unlock the big barn doors that opened into the storehouse, taking a moment to look around the grounds of Parkington Whiskey. The distillery, one of Toronto's finest and oldest, was a large complex made up of five large buildings. These were where Parkington's famed malt whiskey was malted, mashed, distilled and bottled. Several smaller buildings for storage, stables for the horses and outbuildings for the delivery wagons ringed the other side of the plaza. In the big, open space in the middle, wagons were lined up from farmers from the countryside, bringing with them loads of barley. Connor took a look at them as he walked past, shaking his head with a small smile. _Back's goin' to be achin' by lunch_ , he thought to himself. _This year's crop was a bumper one._ He nodded to a few of his fellow loaders, and frowned.

"Hey," he said, catching one of them by the collar, a tall fellow Irishman he only knew as Lucky. "You seen Brendan this mornin'?"

Lucky shook his head, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Nah, ain't seen him yet this mornin'. Perhaps they're havin' trouble with the twins this mornin'."

"Put that thing away!" a voice barked, cutting through the amiable chatter. Lucky hastened to snub out his cigarette as Alexander Martin appeared, a head taller than most of the men. The big Canadian pushed his way through the men, coming over to Lucky and Connor. "What do you think you're doin', mick?" Martin yelled at Lucky. The Irishman bristled at the derogatory term. Martin ignored him as he pointed at the locked doors. "You could've very well burned the whole damned building down!"

"Won't happen again," Lucky bit, with a side eye at Connor.

"Indeed it won't," Martin agreed. He pulled a set of keys from his shirt pocket and proceeded to unlock the doors to the storehouse. "Now _get moving_ ," he growled at the two of them, shoving the doors inward.

The smell of fresh barley assailed Connor as he stepped into the building. The men formed a pair of lines-one line was going to shovel up the barley to take it over to the mashing room; the others were going to start offloading the grain from the wagons. Connor took his place closest to the grain pile with a shovel and dug in. Lucky stood across from him awaiting the first grain sack. It felt foreign to Connor. Normally, Brendan Walsh was across from him, ready to dump the grain out as fast as Connor could help shovel it out.

Connor dropped his first shovelload into the waiting wheelbarrow and twisted again for another. His second shovelful felt heavy. _Odd_ , he thought. Many barleycorns could indeed be heavy, but this was even more so than usual. He lifted the shovel, trying not to lose the grain. There was something in the pile. Connor lifted his shovel cautiously, then screamed as he staggered backwards, his shovel clanging to the plank floor. "Mary, Mother of God!"

"What in the hell is going on, O'Neill?" Martin demanded, his big boots stomping through the gathering group of men, most of whom were wide-eyed and whispering under their breaths. He looked at Connor O'Neill, who was down on his knees, digging frantically through the pile with his hands. "This had better-Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Martin swore as he saw it.

Connor's digging had revealed the body of Brendan Walsh, buried in the grain pile, his leg tucked under the shovel.


	2. Chapter 1

"The victim's name is Brendan Walsh," Constable John Brackenreid met Detective William Murdoch at the door of the grain storehouse. The horses for the ambulance pawed at the ground. The young man stepped back and let his superior officer go through, while some other constables pushed the crowd back, away from the body in the barley. "He didn't show up for work this morning," John added.

Murdoch raised an eyebrow. "So it would appear," he said pointedly. "Who discovered him?"

John pointed to a dark-haired man standing back with the crowd. "Him, sir." He flipped through his notebook. "Connor O'Neill. He was shoveling out the grain and happened upon Walsh buried in the pile."

Murdoch crouched down, studying the body, making the sign of the cross as he did. Brendan Walsh wore a plain cotton shirt and wool pants, held up with a pair of suspenders and sturdy work boots. "No outward signs of trauma," he noted. "We'll have to wait on cause of death until Dr. Ogden does the postmortem." He frowned, looking down at the plank flooring. "John, have a look at this."

John came around the body and bent down next to Murdoch. The detective pointed. "Notice these footprints," he said, gesturing to them. "Looks like a workboot."

John frowned. "But, Detective Murdoch, there's footprints all over in this room," he said. "You can see them in the dust. And a lot of these men are wearing boots."

Murdoch nodded thoughtfully. "That's very true, John. But, these prints are clearly from muddy boots," he explained, plucking his pen from his breast pocket and poking at them. "Note the dirt that's stuck to the floor."

"It rained last night," John offered. "Mother was excited because her tulips in the front yard were looking a little worse for the wear." He got down on his hands and knees and studied the dead man's boots. "These don't look like the same tread. They don't belong to our man here."

Murdoch smiled encouragingly. "Well done, Constable. We'll make you a fine officer of the law yet." John grinned. Murdoch returned to the footprints, and prepared to take a photograph of them with his boxy camera. "So these could perhaps belong to our killer."

"Or someone could have tracked it in this morning," John pointed out.

"These prints are dry," Murdoch stood up and waved for the ambulance. "Let's get this body out of here, and we can start questioning these men."

"How long's that going to take?"

Murdoch looked up as a shadow fell over him. A tall, burly man in a red shirt was standing over him, arms crossed over his chest. Next to him, a skinnier man in a suit and tie also stood, looking impatient. Murdoch looked the both of them up and down. "And…you are?"

"Henry Parkington," the man in the suit introduced himself, sounding for all the world like that was something Murdoch should have known. "And my man in charge of the storehouse, Alexander Martin. How long will this take? If this grain gets ruined-"

"A man was found dead in your barley pile," John said. "Doesn't that mean the grain is already ruined?" Murdoch gave him a side eye, eyebrow raised. John bit his bottom lip.

Martin waved a hand over the room. "As you can see, Constable-" He spat the word out like it tasted bad. "-There's a lot more in here, and much more out there to replace it. My men are on the clock. We'd like to get back to work."

"Mr. Martin, one of your men was found dead in here," Murdoch countered. "And it is my job to figure out what happened to him. I am also on the clock," he said pointedly. "However, what we can do here, we can do at the station. Constable, please take the names of these men so we can bring them in for questioning later."

"Yes, sir," John nodded. He gave a polite nod to Martin and Parkington before heading over to the group of workers.

Murdoch stepped back as the body was lifted off the ground. "Does this man have any family that we can notify?" he asked the two men.

"They'll have his files up at the office," Parkington said shortly. "If you'd like to follow me," he said, staring Murdoch down, as if he dared the detective to do otherwise. Murdoch gave him a polite bow and tipped his hat to Mr. Martin. "John, meet me back at Station House 4 when you've finished," he ordered the younger constable.

"Will do, Detective," John said. He turned to the next man in line. "Your name?" he asked him.

The man ran a hand through his longish brown hair. "He's got a wife," he said softly.

John looked up from his notebook. "I'm sorry…what?" he asked him.

"Brendan." The worker looked out the door, where they were just shutting the ambulance doors. "I-he has a wife," he repeated. "And twin boys at home," he said sadly.

"I'm sorry. Did you know Mr. Walsh well, then?" John asked him. "Mr-?"

"O'Neill. Connor O'Neill," the worker told him. "And yeah. Me and Brendan…we were friends. Lived next door to each other."

John scribbled that down. "What-"

"All right you bums!" John jumped as Mr. Martin's booming timbre echoed in the space. "Back to work," he yelled. The big man stopped in front of John and Connor. " _All_ of you," he said, glaring at Connor.

"Yes, sir," Connor muttered, with one last look at John. He turned and headed back to the grain pile. John saw him hesitate as he moved to pick up his shovel again.

* * *

_City Morgue  
_ Dr. Julia Ogden carefully stitched up her Y-incision on Brendan Walsh and snipped the end of the suture. She set the scissors back on the cart and made her way over to the sink to wash her hands. When she dried them off, she jumped in shock at the sight of Detective Murdoch standing beside the body of Brendan Walsh. "Dear God. William, next time you scare me like that, you're going to be the next body on my table," she chided him, pressing a hand to her chest.

Murdoch grinned at the blonde-haired coroner. "Hello to you too, Julia," he replied. She shook her head at him but she was smiling as she did it, so he knew he wasn't in _too_ much trouble with his wife. "I'm sorry I wasn't home this morning for breakfast," he apologized.

"Yes, about that," Julia said, wiping her hands off on a towel by the sink. "You can tell the Inspector that if he calls that early in the morning again, that warning I gave you will also apply to him!"

Murdoch grimaced. "I'll be sure to pass that along," he said, shaking his head. "In the meantime, what have you, Doctor?"

Julia crossed the room. "Well," she began. "I can tell you that your initial assumption was correct-there are no outward signs of trauma. A bit of redness here, around his neck," she tilted Walsh's head back so Murdoch could see the red skin around his neck and near his shoulders. "His shirt," she continued, handing it to her husband. "It is positively soaked in what smells like whiskey."

"He did work at a distillery," Murdoch said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, if the shirt is anything to go off of, not only did he work at one, but he must have sampled the product quite often. Or, swam in it."

Murdoch chuckled. "Do you have a cause of death for me, Doctor?"

Julia nodded. "I do. Cause of death was asphyxiation."

"Suffocation?" Murdoch clarified. Julia nodded and opened the dead man's mouth. "I found grain dust and barleycorns in his mouth."

Murdoch pondered that. "So," he postulated, "Brendan Walsh was drunk, and stumbled or fell into the pile, where he suffocated."

"It's certainly feasible," Julia concurred. She frowned. "An awful way to go. But there's the redness around his neck to consider as well," she reminded him.

Murdoch was bent over the body as the door to the morgue opened and Constable George Crabtree knocked on the doorframe before removing his helmet. "Morning, Detective, Doctor," the Newfoundland-born constable greeted the two of them, running a hand through his gelled black hair. He turned to Murdoch. "Um, sir, Constable Brackenreid is back and he has some information for you."

"Thank you, George," Murdoch said. He paused. "George. A moment?"

George shrugged. "Sure, Detective. What do you need?" He walked down the ramp and came to join the two of them. "Is this the body you found this morning? John was telling me about it-found it at Parkington Whiskey?"

Murdoch looked at Julia. "Indeed it is. Julia, the redness around the neck." He moved to stand behind George. "Would you say that looks consistent with-" He reached around George's head, wrapped his arm around the constable's neck and applied pressure.

George's eyes went wide in surprise. "Sir?" he choked out, his hands going to the detective's arm to try to pry him off. Murdoch tightened his grip, pressing his other hand into George's temple so that the other man's neck was pushed into the crook of his arm. Julia watched the exchange, amused. Murdoch let go of George and the younger man gasped for air, loosening the top button of his collar with his fingers. "What was all _that_ about?" he inquired, leaning against the railing for support.

Julia tapped her chin. "I would say that certainly fits," she agreed. "So someone rendered Mr. Walsh unconscious and then, what, buried him in the grain pile?"

"That's my guess," Murdoch told her. He clapped George on the back. "Thank you, George." He nodded to his wife, heading for the door.

"Glad I could help," George whispered, rubbing his neck around his uniform collar. Julia shot him a sympathetic smile.


	3. Chapter 2

Murdoch let himself in the back door of Station House Number 4 and made his way through the jail cells to the bullpen, removing his hat as he did so. As he headed for his office, he heard his name bellowed across the busyness of the station. He glanced up to see his immediate supervisor, the redhaired Glaswegian Inspector Thomas Brackenreid, motioning to him from across the office. The inspector's son, John, was already waiting inside. Murdoch changed directions and entered Brackenreid's office, closing the door behind him. "Sir," he greeted Brackenreid politely, moving to take a seat next to John.

"Murdoch. So, what did you two find out this morning at Parkington's?"

Murdoch turned to John. "Go ahead, John," he told him.

"Oh, okay. Um," John stammered, fumbling for his notebook. "Okay, well, we arrived at Parkington Whiskey this morning and made our way to the storehouse. One of the workers, a Mr. O'Neill, discovered the body of Brendan Walsh buried in the barley pile. I was told that he thought it was strange that Mr. Walsh hadn't shown up for work, and then they found him in the grain."

He looked over at the detective. "Ah, sir, if you want to take over with the postmortem results?"

"Of course. Dr. Ogden's official cause of death is asphyxiation. Mr. Walsh was knocked unconscious and then buried in the grain pile." Murdoch didn't miss the wince on John's face. The young man was still fairly new to the constabulary and hadn't quite gotten his feet wet yet, though Murdoch couldn't blame him. It seemed the people of Toronto were constantly coming up with new and creative ways to kill each other. "What did you glean from your interviews of the workers, John?"

John flicked a couple pages in his notebook. "Well, I didn't get to everyone before Mr. Martin forced everybody to get back to work." He shook his head. "He didn't seem terribly upset that one of his men was dead."

"No, he certainly didn't," Murdoch agreed. "Neither did Mr. Parkington, for that matter."

"Anythin' else, John?" Brackenreid asked his son. Whether it was the talk of the distillery, the murder, or the fact that it was past nine in the morning, Murdoch watched as Brackenreid got up from his desk and poured himself a finger of scotch from the bottle on the mantle.

"Well, there was one, sir, I spoke to Mr. O'Neill-Connor, is his first name-and he was telling me that Mr. Walsh has a wife and twin boys at home. I thought maybe, well, maybe it would be beneficial if I went to talk to her, to see if he had any enemies…and to let her know about her husband," John finished.

"Good idea," the Inspector said. "Did we get an address?"

"I've got that one, John," Murdoch said. He leaned forward and wrote it down on a pad of paper, then handed the address to John. "Mr Walsh's widow, Violet, lives on Bay Street. Please tell her, also, when she has a moment, that we can release the body upon proof of identification from her."

John nodded as he stood up. "Yes sir, will do." Helmet tucked under his arm, John took his leave, leaving the detective and the inspector in the office.

"How's he doing, Murdoch?" Brackenreid asked him.

Murdoch leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs. "I believe that once he gets his legs under him, Inspector, that he'll be a fine constable. Might even give George a run for his money. He's got good instincts."

"I know Margaret's still not sold on the idea of two coppers in the family," Brackenreid confessed. "See that you or Crabtree keep an eye on him?"

Murdoch smiled. "Of course, Inspector." He stood up. "I think I'll speak to this Connor O'Neill," he decided. He stepped out of the Inspector's office. "George," he called. "I need your assistance."

George Crabtree glanced up from his typewriter and stood up quickly. "Sir, if this is going to be another incident like the one at the morgue," he began, holding his hands in the air, "then I'm going to have to decline!"

Murdoch laughed. "No, George, it's nothing like that, and I apologize for the morgue. But thank you, for helping me prove a theory."

George frowned. "…You're welcome?"

"George, I need you to develop the photos on my camera. They are of a bootprint we found at the crime scene. See if you can match that boot to a particular brand."

"Of course," he said. "Let you know what I find out."

Murdoch clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man." He set his hat back on his head and straightened his tie, checking the clock. If he played the time right, he could perhaps catch Connor O'Neill on a lunch break. _And then I won't need to worry about his bosses hovering over his shoulder_.

* * *

The Ward was a striking contrast to where John Brackenreid resided. Laundry hung between rows of skinny brick tenements. Children rolled balls down the street or played swordfight with sticks. As John walked down the street, people stared. Uniforms weren't a completely uncommon sight in The Ward; however; uniforms in broad daylight were. _I stick out like a sore thumb_ , John thought, keeping one ear and both eyes on the activity around him.

He doublechecked the address the detective had written down for him and looked around. _It should be…here_. He spotted the correct home and crossed the street. He stood on the doorstep and knocked hard, twice.

The door swung open and two ginger-haired boys with bright green eyes stared up at him, their mouths in identical _o's_ of awe. "A policeman!" one gaped.

"Mama, there's a policeman here!" the other announced.

The door slammed shut in his face. John took a step backwards to keep it from hitting him in the nose. On the other side of the door, he heard someone scolding the two boys. The door opened again, and in front of him stood Violet Walsh. She came up to the middle of his chest, brunette, with bright green eyes like her boys. "I'm so sorry about that," she apologized, her Irish lilt prominent in her voice, an embarrassed smile on her face. "They've not seen a constable up close."

"That's all right," John assured her. "Um, ma'am," he began, pulling off his custodian's helmet, "my name is Constable John Brackenreid. Are you Violet Walsh?"

"Aye, that's me," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," John said, "there's no easy way to say this, Mrs. Walsh, but…" _How do George and the Detective do this?_ he wondered. Mrs. Walsh looked at him curiously. "Uh, well, ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you that your husband Brendan was found dead at Parkington Whiskey this morning."

Her smile fell instantly. "What?" She shook her head. "No, no. That…he-" She faltered, and John grabbed her by the arm, guiding her into the house and into a chair. The boys had stopped wrestling on the rug and were now watching the two adults expectantly. John stayed silent, waiting for Mrs. Walsh to regain her composure. She was breathing slowly, deliberately. After a few moments, she said, "Tommy, Daniel, why don't you boys take your game and go on outside, please?"

The boys scampered out the front door, and John reached over and pushed it closed behind them. He turned to Mrs. Walsh. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Walsh," he told her.

"I wondered, when he didn't come home last night," she whispered. She looked up at John. "He rang me up, said he was goin' out with Connor for a drink or two after work…but then he never came home."

"He was with Mr. O'Neill last night?" John clarified, and she nodded. "What time is he normally off at the distillery?"

"I have supper ready 'round half six," Mrs. Walsh told him.

"Is going out with Mr. O'Neill a common occurrence?"

She nodded. "Connor and Brendan are… _were_ …great friends. Connor's practically a brother to him."

"Mrs. Walsh, was your husband having any issues with anyone at the distillery? Someone who may have wanted him dead?"

Her eyes widened. "He was _murdered_?"

John mentally kicked himself. He could've sworn he'd said that already, but apparently not. "We believe so, yes," he said.

Mrs. Walsh swallowed. "I-I don't…I can't think of…" She slumped forward and John caught her before she hit the floor. Carefully, he rested her against the table and took a seat in another chair. _Guess I'll be staying awhile. Damn it, good going, John._


	4. Chapter 3

Murdoch observed Connor O'Neill through the lattice on the interrogation room window. Connor O'Neill looked to be in this twenties, brown hair that curled around his ears. He was a bigger man, though not as large as Alexander Martin, the foreman at the distillery. The man had spent the last five minutes since Jackson had brought him in staring at the table, hands clasped together in his lap. Murdoch tapped on the door and came in. "Mr. O'Neill?"

Connor looked up. "Yes," he replied softly.

"Mr. O'Neill, my name is Detective William Murdoch. You might remember me from this morning?"

Connor nodded. "You were the fellow looking into Brendan's death," he said.

Murdoch took a seat across the table from him. "Mr. O'Neill, how well did you know Mr. Walsh?"

Connor took a deep breath and let it out. "We've been best mates since birth, practically," he said. "Came over together from Ireland, him with his family."

"And you both got a job at Parkington Whiskey?"

"Yes, sir. There's a bunch of us there," he said. "Working in the storehouse, hauling grain."

"When did you last see Mr. Walsh?" Murdoch asked him.

"Last night. Went out to the pub after work for a drink or two."

"Which pub?"

Connor thought a moment. "Smoky's," he said finally. "On Front."

"Not far from the distillery," Murdoch noted. "How many drinks did Mr. Walsh have?"

"His usual," Connor replied. "Just one." He smiled faintly. "Brendan lost his taste for whiskey after workin' at the distillery so long. Can't stand it hardly, and doesn't drink much else."

"So he wasn't drunk last night?"

"Not hardly," Connor responded, looking confused. "Brendan's usually the one gotta walk me home."

"You told Constable Brackenreid that Mr. Walsh didn't show up for work this morning. What happened between the time you left the pub and the morning bell?" Murdoch leaned back in his chair.

"I-I don't know. We parted ways 'round closing time, I suppose, and then headed home."

"Back to the Ward?"

"Yes." Connor returned his gaze to the top of the table. "Why're you asking me if Brendan was drunk last night?" he asked.

"Your friend's shirt was covered in whiskey," Murdoch told him. "From the smell of it, an entire bottle."

Connor shook his head. "Makes no sense, as I've told you, Brendan didn't drink."

"Care to explain how the whiskey might've gotten there?" Murdoch queried.

"No idea. But it wasn't from him," Connor said flatly.

Murdoch studied him. "Is there anything else you can tell me about last night, Mr. O'Neill?" he asked him.

The other man opened his mouth like he wanted to say something…then shook his head. Murdoch nodded slowly. "Very well. Mr. O'Neill, if you hear anything," he said, standing up. He handed the man one of his business cards. "Please, contact me."

"I will," Connor replied. "I should get back. I need to get back to work…and someone needs to tell Violet about Brendan."

"One of my constables took care of it," Murdoch told him.

Connor seemed surprised by that. "I-of course, I suppose that's your job, isn't it. Right." He stood up, fiddled with the card in his hand. "I can go?"

Murdoch gestured to the door, watched Connor practically run out the door.

"What do you think, sir?" George Crabtree asked him, coming round the corner.

Murdoch tapped his fingers idly on the table. "There's something he's not telling us. I believe I need to pay a visit to Smoky's."

"'s a rough bar," George noted. "Wouldn't surprise me if you go there and nobody knows a thing." At Murdoch's quirked eyebrow he added, "Don't know how many fights Higgins and I have had to break up down there," he explained. "Loads of folks, mostly from down in the Ward. N-not that they're all bad," George walked the comment back. Over Murdoch's shoulder, he spotted John Brackenreid coming through the door. "Ah, sir, excuse me," he said hastily, slipping past the amused detective.

John Brackenreid looked, well, if George had to choose a word, _forlorn_ would be a good choice. "John?" he asked, watching the younger man slump into Higgins' currently unoccupied desk. The younger man didn't look up. George sat down across from him. "John?" he tried again. "Everything all right?"

John glanced up at him. "How do you do it, George?" he asked him.

"That depends on what 'it' is," George countered. "Look this good on six hours of sleep? That's a secret I can't tell you."

He got the younger man to smile, but only barely. "I had to go tell Violet Walsh her husband was dead. I made a mess of it. She fainted in front of me and then kicked me out when she came to."

George raised an eyebrow. "Oh." He nodded. "I wish I could say that gets easier, and that you'll always have the right comforting words to say, but…" He shrugged, reaching forward to pat the desk in front of John. "But it doesn't, and you won't. Best I can tell you is always be kind about it and by sympathetic. That's about all you can do."

John nodded, looking unconvinced. "What did you find out from her?" George asked him.

John thought a moment. "Only that her husband never came home from work last night and that he told her he was at the pub with Connor O'Neill."

"And Mr. O'Neill just informed me that they parted ways shortly after the pub closed for the evening, and that Brendan Walsh had perhaps one drink." Murdoch cut into the conversation. "John, let's go pay a visit to Smoky's."

"Anything I can do to help, sir?" George asked Murdoch.

"Actually, yes," Murdoch said. "Why don't you take a look into Parkington Whiskey, see if there's anything…interesting….in their records or their finances."

"Will do," George nodded.

* * *

_Smoky's  
Front Street_

Murdoch expected, from George's description, that Smoky's would be a simple establishment. What he hadn't banked on was the sheer amount of people inside the pub at one in the afternoon on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Who do we talk to, Detective?" John asked him, looking around the room, hoping that his face didn't betray how nervous he was. Everyone was staring at the two of them, and John could understand it-they did stick out.

Murdoch ignored the looks (this wasn't his first time, after all), and he gestured for John to head for the bar. "We'll start with the bartender," Murdoch said. "And John?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to take a breath," the detective muttered under his breath. "You don't want these men hauling you out of here." He refrained from rolling his eyes as the constable took a visible breath and let it out. _I forget sometimes just how green John is at this job_ , he reminded himself, making a mental note to give him some more guidance. Murdoch walked up to the bar confidently and waited for the bartender to finish the order he was on.

"Help you boys?" the bartender, a man not much older than Murdoch with a Scots accent and muttonchops, asked, sounding as though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

"We're looking for a couple of men who were here last night," Murdoch said. "Brendan Walsh and Connor O'Neill?" He handed over a photograph that Julia had taken at the morgue of Brendan Walsh.

The bartender took a gander at the photo. "Yeah, he was in here last night. Both of 'em."

"Did you notice anything unusual about them?" Murdoch probed. John watched with interest.

The bartender reached for a glass and started wiping it down. "Two men havin' a drink? Nothin' unusual about that."

"So they had their drinks and left?"

The bartender eyed him. "Lot of people in here last night," he said casually. "Don't much remember."

Murdoch raised an eyebrow and pulled some money from his inside pocket, plunking it down on the bar. The bartender swiped it smoothly off the bartop and continued, "Him and Connor got in a fight," he admitted. "Couldn't hear every word, Brendan yelled something about 'violets' and then he got up to leave and Connor followed him out."

"What time was that?"

The bartender glanced at the clock. "Must've been right after last call," he said. "Weren't many left in here at that point."

Murdoch nodded thoughfully. "One more question," he asked. "How many of the men that frequent here work at Parkington Whiskey?"

Apparently, "Parkington Whiskey" was a synonym akin to yelling 'quiet!' in a crowded room. The moment the words left his mouth, a hush fell over Smoky's. A murmur rippled through the crowd and lots of eyes turned to the bar. John tensed.

The bartender glanced around, then leaned across the bar. "I think it's best you gents head out," he informed them.

Murdoch nodded. "That actually answered my question," he replied. He nodded to the bartender. "Thank you for your time. Constable," he nodded to John, who followed him out the door. Once outside and a block away from Smoky's and prying eyes, John turned to Murdoch and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Mr. O'Neill never said anything about a fight," John noted.

Murdoch shook his head. "No, John, he did not." He stopped walking, a thought occurring to him. "John, didn't you say that Mr. Walsh's wife's name is Violet?"

John's eyes widened. "Yeah," he said. "And they were arguing about violets. Maybe…they were arguing over her, sir?"

Murdoch picked up his pace. "Could be, John. That could very well be. And it wouldn't be the first time someone was murdered over a woman."


	5. Chapter 4

When the two of them arrived back at Station House 4, Inspector Brackenreid met them at the door. "Murdoch!" he called. "In my office!"

John made his way over to George Crabtree's desk and flopped down. "That," he breathed, "was a hell of an interview. W-we were surrounded by a bar full of guys who looked like they were out for our skins," he told George. "I thought we'd had it," he said, closing his eyes, taking a moment, replaying the events in his mind. He opened one eye. "George?" John asked of the other constable.

"Huh? Oh, John. You're back," George said absently. He flipped the ledger he was rifling through closed. "So, your interview went well, then?"

John leaned forward. "We managed to discover that our dead man had an altercation with Connor O'Neill, one that Mr. O'Neill never mentioned." He looked over George's shoulder to the Inspector's office. "We think they may have been fighting over Brendan Walsh's wife."

George raised an eyebrow. "That's a good motive, I'd say."

"George," Murdoch came out, stopped by the desk. "What have you on Parkington Whiskey?"

George gestured toward the ledger. "On paper, everything seems above the board, Detective," he told Murdoch. "Pay their bills, numbers are in order, at least what they report to the city in taxes, that is. If there's anything strange happening there, it-it's not in the money."

Constable Jackson came over to the three of them. "Sorry to interrupt," the big constable apologized, "but Henry Parkington from Parkington Whiskey is here," he told them.

George tapped the ledger. "I should get this back to city records," he said.

"George, let's look into their safety record next," Murdoch told him.

"Ah, see if there's something happening there more'n a few bottles missing here and there?" George nodded in agreement. "I'll look into it." He waved at them with the ledger as he headed for the back exit.

Murdoch returned his attention to Henry Parkington, offered the distillery's owner a hand to shake. "Mr. Parkington," he said. "This way, please," he said, gesturing to Inspector Brackenreid's office.

"I don't appreciate being dragged from my business," Parkington complained, brushing past Murdoch. He flopped dramatically into one of the Inspector's chairs, earning him a raised eyebrow from Thomas Brackenreid. Murdoch gave him an imperceptible shrug as he moved to stand behind the Inspector's desk. The whiskey magnate crossed his arms and glared at the two.

"Mr. Parkington, you don't seem terribly upset that one of your men was murdered this morning," Brackenreid mentioned.

Parkington sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, not really sounding it, "Of course, I am upset that Mr. Walsh is dead."

"I'm not entirely sure I find you honest," Murdoch told him. "Mr. Parkington, who has keys to the grain storehouse?"

Parkington seemed affronted by the insinuation of his character. "My foreman, Alexander Martin, whom I believe you mentioned this morning."

"And what can you tell me about Brendan Walsh?" Murdoch crossed his arms over his chest, matching Parkington, an unspoken point that he could keep up face as long as Parkington could.

"Who?"

"Your worker," Murdoch tried to keep a reign on his tone of voice. "The man who was found dead in your grain storehouse this morning." Parkington's lack of empathy was infuriating.

"Ah, the Irishman. I don't know anything about him, I'm afraid. I don't spend time out with the workers, I'm much too preoccupied with the business side of things."

"You do seem to run a tight ship," Murdoch replied. "You're one of the richest men in Toronto, isn't that right?"

Parkington puffed up a bit. "I am indeed, and my whiskey is sampled by the finest gentleman in the country."

"I've tasted it," Brackenreid spoke up.

"Have you now?" Parkington smiled widely. "You have a very refined palate, Inspector."

The Inspector shook his head. "Wasn't my taste," he said flatly, and Parkington bristled.

"Where were you last night between one AM and the morning bell, Mr. Parkington?" Murdoch interrupted before he had to deal with a second murder too close for comfort.

Parkington balked. "Are you accusing _me-_ "

"Just covering our bases, Mr. Parkington," Murdoch said smoothly. "We'd like to get you back to your office as soon as we can, and your men back to your jobs."

"I was at home," Parkington said, standing up sharply. "My wife can confirm it." He glared at the Inspector. "Is that all, Inspector?"

Brackenreid made it a point, Murdoch noticed, to reach for the glass on his desk. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Parkington," Brackenreid said, plastering a smile on his face. The other man barely offered either of them a backwards glance.

Murdoch glanced over at Brackenreid, who toasted him with a glass of scotch. "He's a real philanthropist, isn't he," Brackenreid said dryly.

"Indeed," Murdoch noted. "He certainly seems more concerned with his bottom line than Brendan Walsh."

"I'm sure he's indifferent about it, sir, seein' as how it's not the first incident they've dealt with at Parkington Whiskey," George said, knocking on the door. "Sorry to interrupt," he apologized, "but I thought you might want to hear about this. I put in a call to a friend over at Station House Two who mentioned that before the city redrew the jurisdiction lines, he used to get calls over there all the time."

"What sort of calls?" Murdoch asked, interested.

George licked a finger and flicked to the page. "Nothing so big as murder, sir, but small disputes and fights, and a few safety things here and there." He glanced down the list. "Some burns from the equipment, dropped bottles resulting in cuts and bruises…" He looked at Murdoch. "There was one incident, sir, a man checked into Toronto Mercy with a-" He paused, attempting to get the word right, "-a laceration to the right temple. He said he was hit by a shovel."

"Oh 'm sure the shovel just leapt up and clocked him. Bad enough to send him to the hospital, eh?" Brackenreid said. "Who was that, then?"

George flipped his notebook around so Murdoch could see the name. "Alexander Martin," he read. "The foreman. Did Mr. Martin bring charges against who hit him?"

"No, but my friend at Station Two said everybody knew who did it," George explained. "Brendan Walsh."


	6. Chapter 5

George knocked on Detective Murdoch's office door later that evening. The detective was turned, facing his blackboard, one hand on his chin. It was a familiar pose, one that George had often caught his friend standing in during a case. So he knew to knock again, and then enter slowly. He crossed the room, his boots clacking on the floor in the quiet. He had no idea if Detective Murdoch knew he was in the room. The hand that wasn't on his chin was holding onto a piece of chalk.

The constable studied the board. The detective had written down the names of their three suspects on one side, and on the other the information about the victim, Brendan Walsh. "Seeing anything yet, Detective?" George asked him.

Murdoch shook his head without turning around. "Not yet, George, not yet."

"Anything else I can help you with this evening, sir?"

Murdoch turned, gave him a small smile and a shake of the head. "No. Thank you, though."

"William? Oh, George, hello," Dr. Julia Ogden entered the office, her coat over one arm.

"Dr. Ogden," George nodded politely to her. Her husband was still staring intently at the blackboard, and she sighed and shook her head.

"Have you recovered from this morning?" she asked George with a smile.

He grinned. "Feeling a little sore yet from my 'hostage experience', but I'll manage." He gave the doctor a once-over. "You look wonderful, if you don't mind me saying so." His voice raised on that sentence, trying to get the Detective to turn around.

The two of them waited. Murdoch scribbled something on the board, frowned, and erased it.

Julia rolled her eyes and set her jacket over the chair and George stepped back with a mock bow, giving her a clear path to her husband. He waited, amused. The doctor stood behind her husband and slid her arms around his waist. The touch was all it took to startle the detective out of his musings and turn to look at his wife. "Julia," he breathed. "What-that is, what are you-"

He took a moment, studying her long blue dress and made-up face. "The theatre. Right." He clapped a hand to his forehead. "I'm so sorry, I got caught up."

"I thought you might," Julia replied, "which is why I'm here an hour early. You've enough time to change before the carriage arrives."

Murdoch frowned. "Oh, but my suit-"

"You look fine with the one you have on," Julia told him. "Your tails are hardly necessary for this." She kissed him on the cheek. "Put the chalk down, William."

"You need to borrow the handcuffs, Dr. Ogden?" George offered cheekily. "Drag him away?"

The detective's ears tinged pink. "That…won't be necessary," he stammered. George shared a wink with Julia as she escorted her husband from the office. The constable shook his head. For the brightest man George knew, sometimes, William Murdoch could be completely clueless. George made sure to close the detective's door behind him as he stepped out of the room. John Brackenreid was still at his desk-George saw the list of employees from Parkington Whiskey in front of him on the typewriter. "John. Aren't you off the clock?" he asked him.

"I-" John looked at his watch, then up at George. "Yes sir, a half hour ago."

George shook his head. "Those men'll still be on that list in the morning, you know."

"I know." George waited, sensing the young man had something more to say. "I just, I want to make sure I didn't miss anything today," John finished.

"John, I'm sure you're doing just fine on this case," George assured him. "The Inspector-your father-or Detective Murdoch would tell you otherwise. Or I would. In fact, what _I_ would say is that your hard work today has earned you a drink."

John shook his head. "Oh, I don't know, George," he protested.

George clapped him on the shoulder. "Fine. You can keep me company while _I_ drink then," he told him. "You, ah, ever been to the Star Room?"

John's eyes widened. " _The_ Star Room?"

George winked. "Is there another one I don't know about?" Then he paused. "Wait, _is_ there another one?"

* * *

_The Star Room_

George couldn't help but laugh at the scandalized look on his partner's face as they stepped off the stairs and into the Star Room. The infamous burlesque club was already in full swing. George took a look at John's jacket and tie and laughed. "You're a bit stiff for this place," he informed him over the din. "Lose the tie, John," he urged. To prove a point, he unbuttoned the top button and the cuffs of his own shirt. "You're off the clock; might as well enjoy it."

John didn't hear him. His eyes were firmly transfixed onstage at the young, blonde haired dancer in a baseball jersey and ruffled skirt doing some _very_ suggestive things with a bat. George grinned and pulled the younger man over to a table almost in the middle of the room. He waved over a waiter and ordered a round for the two of them. "Her name's Anna," George explained. "The Diamond Darling," he added when John finally turned to look at him.

He saw John processing that. "You come here a lot, then?" John asked him over the din of the crowd.

George nodded. "Find it's a good place to blow off some steam most days," he said. "The beer is cold, the piano's hot, and-" here he nodded to the stage with a grin, "-there's a hell of a view."

"If it isn't my favorite Mr. Wednesday!"

George looked up as a dancer plopped herself into his lap. She was wearing a custodian's helmet and constable jacket…and not much below that. John's eyes were as large as saucers. She had curly brown hair and big brown eyes, rouged lips, and a twinkle in her eye.

George smiled. "Evening, Nina. John, allow me to introduce you to the dark-haired darling of the Star Room, Miss Nina Bloom."

Nina offered John a hand. The young man stared at it awkwardly. "Generally, you shake it or kiss it," Nina teased him. "First time?"

John coughed. "Yes, ma'am," he replied.

She winked at him and turned to George. "Well, he's in for quite the show this evening," she told the two of them. She ran a fingernail down the side of George's face suggestively.

"He won't be staying that late," George promised her quickly. "Speaking of, isn't it almost your turn up there?"

Nina smiled. "Trying to get rid of me, George Crabtree?"

John found his voice again. "You're, um, you're impersonating an officer."

George smirked as Nina slid off his lap. She bent over the table until she was eye level with John, giving John a good look at her. "Come to arrest me, John?" she questioned him, and with that, she sauntered off toward the stage door.

John took a long pull of his beer. "How do you know _her?_ " he asked George, when he finally got his breath back.

George shook his head. "Put your eyes back in their sockets, John. She helped out with a case awhile back. We've been, ah, _acquainted_ , ever since."

John processed that. "Acquainted _how_?"

George shot him a look. "I give her pointers on her act," he said dryly.

His friend maintained his deer-in-headlights look. "Does she have a friend?" he asked finally, and George chuckled behind the bottle in his hand.

The music changed to an upbeat number and Nina Bloom took the stage. Neither of the two said much after that.


	7. Chapter 6

_Parkington Whiskey_

Alexander Martin picked up two bag of grain off the wagon and turned to face Murdoch. The weight didn't even cause him to break a sweat. "Yeah, Brendan Walsh clocked me with a shovel. Doesn't mean I killed him," he told Murdoch, hefting the bags into the waiting hands of the men next to him.

"I never said you did," the detective countered. "I asked _why_ he hit you." Next to him, John Brackenreid watched the exchange intently.

"I may have said something," Martin shrugged, handing off another load.

"Mr. Martin," Murdoch spoke up, his patience rapidly fraying, "if you'd like, we can continue this down at the station house. Perhaps a less busy environment would jog your memory?"

Martin rolled his eyes, motioning for another man to take over. He walked a few feet away from the storehouse, Murdoch and John following. "Look, it's no secret that I didn't like Walsh. Ask any of the boys. Fact is, he was after my job back then, he and I got into it, I called him a few names and he cracked me in the head with the shovel." He touched his scalp near his hairline, and Murdoch caught the start of a jagged pink scar. "Can't say I didn't deserve it."

"Why didn't he get your job?"

Martin eyed him. "Mr. Parkington appreciates men he can count on. Men with a certain…background."

John frowned, confused. Martin caught the look. "I've been here longer and I'm _from_ here," he said pointedly. Realization dawned on John and he refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Old wounds sometimes fester," Murdoch suggested.

Martin gave him a thin smile. "Not this one," he said. "All healed up. If there's nothing else, Detective, I'd like to get back to work."

John stood beside him as Murdoch waved Martin away. "You think he did it, sir?" John asked as they moved further out into the plaza away from prying ears.

The detective stood, watching the workers. "I think he's certainly strong enough to have choked him unconscious," he said. "But right now, it's his word against a dead man's." He raised his chin toward the other buildings. "Perhaps we should ask around. If it's no secret he didn't like Walsh, then perhaps someone else around here has some more information for us. Why don't you ask around here," Murdoch suggested, nodding in the direction of Connor O'Neill, who was watching them from the doorway. "I'll go ask around the rest of the distillery. Let's see if there's any loose tongues around here."

* * *

For the next few hours as the sun rose above Parkington Whiskey, John was certain he'd interviewed every man who worked at Parkington Whiskey. Except for Connor O'Neill, who seemed to cleverly be wherever John was not. _Probably because he lied to us about the fight. The detective'll want to bring him back in for questioning, I'm sure_.

His notebook was empty. No one he'd spoken to seemed to have anything to offer them about Alexander Martin, Brendan Walsh, the altercation, or any of the safety issues at the distillery. A very frustrated John met back up with Murdoch at the street entrance to the distillery, slapping the cover on his notebook shut. "I think I'd have had a better chance of getting information by talking to this gate," John complained as he tucked his notebook away. "Did you have better luck, Detective?"

"I'm afraid I fared about the same," the older man admitted. "No one is going to want to talk to a constable and a detective, especially since much of the men here are immigrants, and working for a man who clearly cares very little for their health and safety."

The two of them were walking as they were talking, heading up the street. "So what might be our next move, Constable Brackenreid?" Murdoch asked him. The younger man's eyes lit up, flattered to be asked for his input from the more experienced of the two.

John pondered the question as he walked. "Well, we could bring them down for questioning to the station house, away from Parkington's eyes and ears," he suggested.

"But?" Murdoch pressed.

"But," John continued, "chances are if they're not gonna talk here, they won't talk there." He turned to Murdoch. "We've already had one man lie to us. And I don't know that if it was me I'd want everybody else to know who's been talking to the police, either. Especially since whoever murdered Brendan Walsh probably works there."

"Agreed," Murdoch said. "So then, John, what do we do?"

John was quiet for a block or two and the detective let him mull it over as they turned down the street toward the station house. Finally, before they reached the door, John snapped his fingers. "What if we could get a man on the inside? A constable to go undercover, maybe?"

Murdoch clapped him on the back. "Very good, John." John smiled proudly. "Who would you suggest?"

"Well, they've seen your face and mine, Detective," John said as they headed for the Inspector's office. "Sir, I would send in-"

"Detective Murdoch, I have your photos and some information on those boots," George Crabtree cut him off, handing over a file folder. The constable didn't miss the look that passed between Murdoch and John. "What?" he asked. "I miss a spot shaving this morning?"

Murdoch smiled. "George. A word?"

* * *

_The Star Room_

"Stay," Nina whispered in George's ear. The Star Room was long closed, but back in the dressing room, the show had continued. Nina rested in the crook of George's arm as the two of them lay in bed, George's fingers running idly up and down her bare arm.

George smiled, craning his neck so he could see her. "You know I can't," he reminded her. "I've got to work in the morning."

Nina frowned. "George, that's a terrible excuse. You work _every_ morning." She pulled the sheet farther up and rolled so she was resting on her side. A piece of her hair fell over her ear and George reached over and tucked it back.

"Well, tomorrow's a little different," he said. "I'm going undercover tomorrow at Parkington Whiskey."

"Parkington?" Nina asked. She wrinkled her nose. "Ugh."

"You're not a fan of whiskey, then?" George asked her. "It seems to me I've seen you knock back a glass or two before," he pointed out. He winked at her. "Lying to a constable is a punishable offense, you know."

"Then I'll lie to you more often," Nina teased him, running a hand below the sheets. George sucked in a breath. "The whiskey is fine," she said. "It's our delivery man that's…ugh." She made a face. "His name's Kenneth Smith. Tells us girls to call him Kenny. He's handsy."

George looked at her seriously. "He ever get more than that?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "No. He's just a dope," Nina explained. "None of us girls like him much, but the whiskey sells out, so we put up with him. He's harmless, but he likes trying to take things that aren't his," she finished.

"Maybe I give him a warning if I see him," George suggested, flipping on his side so he was facing her. "Tell him to lay off."

"Please," Nina rolled her eyes. "Trust me, if he tries anything again he'll be missing some fingers," she assured him. "Or he'll get a bottle of his own product upside the head. He's not worth your time."

He snaked a hand under her arm and around her back, pulling her tight against him. "And exactly what _is_ your time worth, Miss Bloom?" George questioned her, looking into her eyes.

Nina trailed her fingers up his back, making him shiver. "Stay," she said, "and find out."

He wanted to argue, he really did. "Yes, ma'am," he said instead.


	8. Chapter 7

George Crabtree had been many different things undercover in his time with the Toronto Constabulary. A waiter, a sailor, a carriage driver, a nudist (on one memorable occasion he'd just as soon forget); whatever position Detective William Murdoch needed him to fill, George was more than happy to oblige for his friend and colleague. This was his first time as a grain hauler at a distillery, however, and as a consequence of that, the nerves were becoming more pronounced. He took a moment to study his surroundings, something he hadn't done since he'd been hired on. He was standing in front of the grain storehouse; next door to that was the mashing room, where the barley was ground up and put into large mashing tuns, mixed with hot water and mixed to extract the sugar. In the corner of the complex were the stables and the wagons were kept for deliveries around the city.

George adjusted the brim of his fisherman's hat over his eyes as he spotted Connor O'Neill coming from the direction of the fermentation building. The loader was talking with a couple of other men, but they stopped when they caught George staring at them, choosing to push their way to the front of the men waiting for the foreman to unlock the doors on the grain storehouse. George looked away quickly on the pretense of getting his bearings. There was a gap between the buildings that led to the offices, and then the side of the complex closest to the river housed the buildings where the whiskey was distilled, aged and bottled. From there, the whiskey was loaded onto carts, motorcars and train to head into the city and beyond. He needed to learn every inch of the place if he was going to do well blending in.

"Let's get a move on!" The booming voice of Alexander Martin bounced off the buildings, and George turned hurriedly to get in line, slipping his way through the commotion until he was in a position to stand in the line that took the wheelbarrows of grain next door. _At least I don't have to try to lift those sacks of barley_ , he thought to himself with relief. George was relatively fit-you had to be, to be a constable- but trying to lift those sacks was a bit out of his wheelhouse.

He worked solidly with the others until the lunch bell rang, and then followed some of the crowd off the complex to Smoky's, keeping his hat low over his eyes in case they recognized him as George Crabtree, Toronto Constabulary. He crossed his fingers, hoping that most of the crowd that frequented at night was too drunk to remember him in the daylight. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he and Henry Higgins had broken up more than their fair share of brawls on the premises.

He ordered something simple, affecting a highly overexaggerated version of his own Newfoundlander accent. Then, he sat back to eavesdrop. Men loved to talk when there weren't eyes. He nursed his drink. Most of the conversation dwelled away from work ( _and rightly so,_ George thought, _work should be kept at the office_ ), but every now and again he'd pick up things about the distillery, though nothing worth mentioning.

_This is getting me nowhere_ , he thought. Glass in hand, he got up and worked his way through the crowd, finally sitting down at a table for four with an empty chair. To his surprise, one of his tablemates was Connor O'Neill. "I gotta say, you lads impress the hell out of me," George spoke up, acutely aware they were all staring at him like he'd grown an extra head. He rotated his shoulder and winced. "Don't know if I'll ever be able to do this job for a full day without feelin' as though I've been run over by a train."

"It's noon," one of the men said, exchanging a look around the table.

"Is it only that?" George shook his head. "My God, feels like I've been at it for days. Whoever it was that told me you boys are no more than stockboys was sadly mistaken."

"Who the hell told you that?" Connor O'Neill asked him.

George glanced at him, raised an eyebrow. "Well, an idiot, apparently," he said, raising his glass in salute to them.

That broke the ice. The table chuckled. George set his glass down and offered a hand to Connor. "George Jennings," he introduced himself.

"Connor. This is Nick and Seamus," Connor pointed around the table.

"Pleasure," George nodded. "So, bein' my first day and all, I figure you gents are the ones to ask…." He lowered his voice. "The hell is with the man in charge?" he asked them. "Martin, or whatever his name is. Seems like a real peach."

Seamus snorted. "He's a right bastard, he is."

"He doesn't like us one bit, but fact is, nobody else in this city'll do this job," Nick added. "So he puts up with us."

"Until you try to get promoted over him," Connor muttered.

Nick pointed with his glass. "Aye, there is that," he said. He turned to George. "Keep your nose to the ground and he'll give you no trouble, and be happy where you're at in the peckin' order."

George nodded slowly. "Good to know. I gotta worry about anyone else around here?" he asked, making it a point to look around the bar.

His tablemates were silent. "Not really," Connor said finally. "Most of the boys 'round here are decent enough."

"Better'n my last job," George said. "Workin' over at the sawmill." He rolled his eyes. "Surprised half the men there had limbs left. Feel as though I was lucky when they fired me to have escaped with all of me intact!"

The men laughed. "You're an all right one, George," Seamus said. Outside, the bell rang, announcing time to return to work. The group stood up. "You stick with us, we'll show you the ropes," Seamus told George.

"And make sure you keep your important parts!" Nick guffawed, clapping him on the back. George grinned as he followed the group, noticing that Connor stayed quiet the whole walk back. _Are you upset about your friend, Mr. O'Neill? Or is there something else going on?_ he wondered.

* * *

John Brackenreid threaded his way through a group of boys playing marbles on the street in front of Violet and Brendan Walsh's tenement. He hesitated in front of Violet's door, but only for a moment. Instead, he knocked on the door next to hers and waited.

A moment later, a young man around his age opened the door, a little girl in pigtails clutching onto his leg. "Who are you?" he asked John, eyeing him warily.

"Constable John Brackenreid," John introduced himself. He smiled at the little girl. "I just had a couple of questions for you, Mr…?"

"Allan," he replied. "Allan Potter."

"Mr. Potter," John said, laying on some of his mother's manners. "Do you have a moment or two?"

Allan Potter continued to stare at him, as if he was waiting for John to reveal some ulterior motive or drag him out of the house. After a minute or two staredown, he finally nodded and moved back so John could enter the house. Allan half walked, half dragged the little girl over to a rocking chair and pulled her into his lap. "My sister, Lydia," he said, shaking his head. "She's shy."

"I've got a little brother at home," John told him. "Though Bobby's not near as clingy as this one." Lydia stuck her tongue out at him and John's eyes widened. His automatic, big brother response, was to stick his out right back at her, and she buried herself in her brother's shirt. "Your folks around?" John asked him.

Allan shook his head. "They're both working. Ma's over at the laundry and Pa works at the Queen's Hotel."

"The hotel?" John whistled. "Nice work," he said. "How about you?"

Allan shook his head. "Ma and Pa don't feel good about leaving Lydia home alone, so I take care of her."

"Isn't there a couple of boys next door she could play with?"

Allan eyed the little girl clinging to his suspenders. "Does she look like she would go play with two boys?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

John chuckled. 'No, I guess not. Speaking of your neighbors, I don't know if you heard about Mr. Walsh?" he asked, turning serious.

"Yeah. Terrible stuff," Allan said. "I liked him. He had a sense of humor that Ma didn't approve of, and he would tell me jokes early in the mornings before he went to work."

"Do you know a man named Connor O'Neill?"

Allan nodded. "Yeah. Him and Brendan would be outside sometimes singing and drinking."

"They were friends?"

"Oh yeah. Really good friends," Allan assured looked at John. "Connor's been by the house since Brendan died. Making sure Mrs. Walsh and the boys are okay."

"Is he…" John paused, trying to figure the right way to phrase his next question. "Friendly, with Mrs. Walsh?"

Allan shifted Lydia in his lap. The girl was half asleep, and he waited a moment or two before answering John. "Do you mean did he kill Brendan so he could marry Mrs. Walsh?" he asked John pointedly. "No. No way."

"They were arguing about violets the night that Mr. Walsh was killed," John explained.

"Well, it wasn't about her," Allan said. "Must be a mistake, and anyone else around here'll tell you the same thing. Connor didn't kill Brendan." Lydia yawned and fisted his shirt. He stood up carefully. "I think it's time you left," he said.

John stood up along with him. "Right. Thank you," he said. He let himself out and leaned against the wall of the house. It was going to be a long afternoon.


	9. Chapter 8

"There's nothing," Murdoch was telling Julia later that afternoon. His wife was elbows-deep into a postmortem and he was perched on a chair, his jacket set over the back of it, watching her work. "I've been all over the records George managed to procure on Parkington Whiskey. No other altercations between Martin or any of the other workers."

"That gives him a motive to kill Brendan Walsh-apparently he was the only one he had an issue with. Though by his own account he started the fight," Julia said, removing the stomach from the body on the table. "Perhaps the hatchet wasn't as buried as he makes it out to be."

"Maybe," Murdoch mused. "It is interesting…none of the other violations of safety protocols at Parkington Whiskey are anything that Parkington would want to sweep under the rug or be so belligerent about." The detective shook his head. "I'd love to convict him on nothing more than being an unsympathetic louse."

"Maybe he just doesn't like you," Julia offered as she studied the stomach contents of the victim on the table.

Murdoch's eyes widened. "I'll have you know," he informed her, "I happen to be a very amiable man."

Julia laughed and she looked up over the organ in her hands. "Oh William, that doesn't mean everyone is going to just spill their secrets to you," she said. "When has that ever actually worked for you in an interrogation?"

"Once," he said seriously, making his wife chuckle harder. "So if the animosity between Martin and Walsh was a one-time deal, and Parkington has nothing to hide…then we return back to Connor O'Neill."

"And if they were indeed arguing over something nefarious with Mr. Walsh's wife, that would explain why he didn't tell you about the fight at the pub," Julia added. She sampled some of the stomach contents into a syringe and looked at her husband. "Care to guess on cause of death?"

Murdoch smiled as he stood up to join her. "I'll leave that to you," he told her, kissing her on the cheek. "Don't stay too late," he added, as he picked up his jacket and made for the door.

Julia snorted. "Me stay late," she said to the body on the table. "That's rich, isn't it."

* * *

George Crabtree left Parkington Whiskey that evening slightly dejected. In his heart, he knew that it was going to take more than a day to ingrain himself with the crew at the distillery, time to build trust and listen for loose lips, but he'd clocked out with little more than sore arms to show for his efforts that day. Most of his inquiries (phrased innocently enough as he played the inexperienced man to the hilt) had been met with silence, glares and insults in more than one language.

The plaza was mostly empty, save for a few stragglers taking their time. George didn't see his three new Irish friends anywhere, they must have lit out the moment they'd punched their cards. He also didn't see Alexander Martin anywhere, and he was sure that Henry Parkington made his way home through different means than his own two feet.

George turned on Parliament, headed for his boarding house. Halfway home, something told him to stop, and George whirled, expecting to see someone behind him.

No one was there. _Fumes must be gettin' to you,_ he thought to himself, and turned forward again. He made it home without incident, but couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been followed. _Perhaps my questions touched a nerve somewhere after all_.

He was about to close the door to his apartment when a hand snaked through the open door and shoved it open, sending George staggering backwards. The intruder closed the door behind him, but George was ready for him, his pistol from the bedside table pointed between the man's eyes.

"You're close enough I won't miss," George warned him. "Who the hell are you?"

The man looked a little older than George, wearing a flannel shirt and long pants with sturdy boots. He held his hands up placatingly. "You're lookin' for information about Brendan Walsh?" he queried.

George kept his gun leveled at him. "What of it?" he shot back.

"I have information for you," the man told him. "Bout Walsh, 'bout lots of things."

George waited. "So let's have it," he said.

The man shook his head. "Not here," he said. "Dunno that I weren't followed. 'Sides, it's all over at the distillery, everythin' you want to know."

"Who are you?"

"Dwyer. Alfie Dwyer," the man explained. "You meet me tomorrow night. I'll tell you everything you wanna know, Constable, I swear it."

George's blood ran cold. "W-what do you mean?" he feigned innocence. "I'm not-"

"You and your partner busted up a fight couple weeks ago at Smoky's. I know who you are. "

"Yeah, and I let you walk out of here, who's to say you keep your word?" George asked, his heart pounding. "Or that you don't go rattin' me to Martin or Parkington?"

Dwyer put his hands down. "I got no love for either of them," he assured George. "But what I know…you're gonna want to know too," he said. "Tomorrow. In that little alley between the fermentation room and the office." He backed up slowly toward the door, his eyes never leaving George's pistol.

Against his better judgment, George put the gun down. "Tomorrow?" he confirmed.

Dwyer nodded. "After last bell," he reminded him, and slipped out the door.

George waited a full count of ten before he breathed again. _Touched a nerve, indeed_.

He slept with his pistol under his pillow that night.

* * *

The sun was turning the sky a light pink as George tugged his hat low over his eyes and made his way to Parkington Whiskey the next morning. Out of the corner of his eye as he was about to cross Front Street, he spotted a familiar face and ducked across traffic, slipping between a couple of buildings.

"Anything, George?" Murdoch asked him, leaning against the wall of the breezeway.

"You might say that," George replied, and relayed the detective the events of the night before. "Mr. Dwyer seemed reluctant to tell me anything at my apartment, but I'm to meet him after our shift today."

"Could be a trap," Murdoch said when he'd finished. George nodded.

"Could be," he agreed, "but I won't know until tonight."

"Perhaps John or I should join you, discreetly," Murdoch suggested.

George shook his head. "No, sir, they've seen too much of you two. Let me handle this one."

Murdoch looked at him in concern. "Are you sure, George?" he asked.

"Yes sir," George told him. "I best get moving, don't want to be late on my second day," he said. "I'll meet you back at the station house tonight with what I learn," he added.

"Watch your back, George," Murdoch ordered him, and the constable nodded, leaving Murdoch in the alley as he continued down the street. Murdoch went back up Parliament to the nearest phone box and had the operator patch him through to Station House 4. "Jackson, I need to speak to Constable Brackenreid," he said. He waited, watching the street. "John. It's Detective Murdoch. I need you to see what you can find out about an Alfie Dwyer who works at the distillery."

* * *

Nina Bloom propped one leg against the front of the stage and leaned over it, feeling the muscle pull in the back of her calf. She gripped her toes, counting to five, and then releasing, before repeating the action. The Star Room wouldn't open for another eight hours but she wanted to be limber and ready to run through a new number when their piano player, Jeffrey, arrived.

There was a loud thunk to her right, and she glanced over to see Ken Smith with his hands on a crate of Parkington Whiskey. She averted her eyes lest Ken think he was what she was staring at. Ken Smith was a stout, fat man who smelled of cigarette smoke and whiskey just about any time of day and he was _not_ her favorite person. Unfortunately, Nina happened to be Ken's.

"Ten cases of the usual?" their bartender, Mickey, was asking him.

Ken leaned over the bar, and Nina switched legs on the pretense of changing up the stretch when really, she was trying to listen to their conversation.

"Ten, plus one of somethin' special," Ken told him, glancing around the half-empty room. Nina pretended to be very busy inspecting the buckle on her shoes. "Cost you an extra twenty-five, but I guarantee you it's worth every penny," Ken continued.

Michael was considering it, Nina knew. It seemed stupid, at the heart of it, everyone came to the Star Room to see the girls dance, and probably would even if the liquor ran out. But Michael was always worried about his bottom line. She watched him slide the bills across the top of the counter, and Ken pocketed them smoothly. "Bring it out for your best," Ken said. His eyes scanned the room, settling on Nina, who had moved to sitting on the stage, legs on either side in a split.

"Speaking of the best," he said slyly, and Nina refrained from rolling her eyes, instead, plastering a smile on her face. "Good afternoon, Miss Nina," Ken greeted her, the words rolling off his tongue with an accent of whiskey.

"Hello, Ken," she responded. "Always a pleasure." It was a credit to her mother that she managed to keep a straight face. _Always tell them what they want to hear_ , Eleanor Bloom had told her daughter.

"Indeed it _is_ a pleasure," Ken replied, his eyes working their way up and down her legs.

Nina kept her eyes on him as she slipped one behind her, leaning forward on her elbows. "I heard you offer Mike something special for tonight?" she asked him, her eyes looking from the top of her costume's corset to him.

Ken was practically salivating. "A special blend," Ken replied. "A little extra kick, so to speak." He was leaning over the stage now.

Nina sat up quickly, and the delivery driver nearly toppled onstage. "Interesting," she replied. "Here I thought the only kicks you were interested in were the chorus line," she said with a flirtatious smile, before making her way backstage.

In the back, well away from Ken's prying eyes, she let out a breath. She looked at the clock. _Perhaps a quick run to Station House 4 is in order_ , she thought.


	10. Chapter 9

"The boots that these prints belong to are sold all over the city," John Brackenreid was telling Murdoch in his office. "And they're popular with half of the Ward. I don't think we're going to get anywhere with them."

Murdoch pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "We just need a break," he said. "One thing, that could blow this entire case wide open."

"Maybe I could be of assistance with that, Detective," a voice spoke up from Murdoch's doorway. The two men looked up to see Nina Bloom, in a long green dress and wide-brimmed hat. "Apologies," she said, pointing back at the admitting desk. "The constable up front said I could come right in."

"I'm sure," Murdoch muttered. "Miss Bloom, it's nice to see you again," he said civilly.

"Always a pleasure," Nina said with a smile. "Tell me, have you heard from George at all? He told me he was going undercover at Parkington Whiskey, to try to flush out a murderer."

Murdoch and John exchanged a look. "Nothing that would concern you, Miss Bloom," Murdoch told her, reminding himself that George was sweet on the dancer, not that it gave him an excuse to tell her _everything_.

"Well, I may have something that would concern _you_ ," Nina told him, and explained her encounter with Ken Smith at the Star Room.

"Did you get a chance to examine the bottles?" John asked her.

She shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. I needed to make a quick escape from Mr. Smith before he got any ideas. From where I was, however, everything appeared normal. The packaging and the crate all looked the same as our usual deliveries from the distillery-brown bottle, regular label."

"Then how do you know there's anything unusual?"

Nina looked at him. "Because Ken wouldn't make a big deal out of it or have Mike pay extra for it if there wasn't something he wanted noticed about it. Ken is _not_ subtle, in any sense of the word."

Murdoch leaned back in his chair, thinking. "Miss Bloom, would you be able to procure a sample of that delivery for us?"

"We're not normally allowed to sample without it coming out of our pay," Nina said, "but I think I could charm a bottle off Mike for you."

"Excellent. Perhaps it has something to do with our murder victim," Murdoch said.

"Or it could be something else entirely," John pointed out.

Murdoch grimaced. "Let's hope not. There's far too much happening at Parkington the way it is."

* * *

The evening bell rang and George wiped the sweat off his forehead, wishing he hadn't dropped his hat near a rainwater barrel on the pretext of needing to come back for it later. Shadows were just starting to fall around the distillery as he waited in line with his Irish friends, who were becoming much more chatty around him, until it was his turn to punch out. He looked around for Alfie Dwyer, but didn't see the older gentleman anywhere. The place was beginning to clear out; obviously, no one wanted to be here any longer than they needed to be.

George punched out and made a show of needing to find his hat. It earned him a few strange looks, but no more strange than anybody else got around Parkington Whiskey. He circled back to the grain storage house, and nearly ran headlong into Alexander Martin.

The bigger man eyed him. "Jennings. What're you doing poking around here?"

It took George a moment to realize his cover was still intact. "Oh." George pointed to his hair. "Hat's gone missin'," he said. "Only one I got, missus'll have my hide if I don't bring it back."

Martin stared at him, and George held his gaze for as long as he could stand it. "Well, it ain't in there," Martin told him. "I didn't see anything when I was locking up."

"A-are you sure?" George played it up. "Maybe under a wheelbarrow, o-or-"

"No."

George swallowed. "Right. I-I'll just check round here then," he stammered. "Go faster if you helped me look, sir," he said.

Martin rolled his eyes. "I've got better things to do than help you find your hat. Find the damn thing and get out of here."

"Right," George said again, grinning inwardly. It had work exactly the way he had wanted it to go. Martin brushed past him, heading for the exit, bumping him in the shoulder as he went. George waited until Martin had gone around the corner and then made a beeline for the barrel, retrieving his hat. He looked around. _Coast is clear_. He dashed across the plaza, heading for the fermentation building. "Mr. Dwyer?" he called out in a whisper, looking around. The whisper seemed too loud in the silence. His footsteps echoed around the plaza. He rounded the corner between the main office and the building, looking around. "Mr. Dwyer? It's George."

He heard footsteps and turned. It was the last thing he remembered.

* * *

Nina slapped the handcuffs on Lydia Hall's gloved arm and Lydia fixed her with a pout. Out in the audience, the music swelled and a scattering of applause echoed around the room. Nina pointed a finger at Nina and wagged it side to side before throwing a smile and a wink over her shoulder as she escorted Lydia offstage. The piano finished with a flourish and there were cheers and applause rampant throughout the crowd.

"Great crowd tonight!" Lydia enthused as Nina unlocked the cuff. "That fella in the front row, he was staring the _whole_ time!"

"You ought to go say hello," Nina encouraged her friend.

"You think?" Lydia said hopefully.

"Absolutely," Nina said, shirking her constable's jacket backstage, revealing a bright pink bustier with black lacing. Part of her felt bad for encouraging Lydia-the other woman had horrid luck with men. "You go on, I'll be sure to stick to the back of the room," she teased. Lydia hit her playfully on the arm and disappeared out the side door. Nina put her costume away, her mind thinking about her assignment from Detective Murdoch. If she was spotted back in storage, she'd have a hard time explaining herself. _Not that they'll ever fire me_ , she grinned. _But this is for George_.

There were shouts from the bar-and not the usual hoots and hollers for the girls onstage. Then, the piano came to a halt. Nina ran from the back, throwing a filmy black shawl over her shoulders as she did. Someone was calling for an ambulance, and a crowd had gathered up near the bar. Onstage, Valerie had her hands over her mouth staring in horror at something in front of the crowd. Nina pushed her way to the front of the group and looked.

A man lay on the ground as if he'd fallen backwards off his stool. Glassy eyes stared at the ceiling, a glass clutched in his fingers. Nina's eyes darted around the area, looking for—and there it was. Taking advantage of the chaos, her fingers latched around the neck of the bottle of Parkington Whiskey Michael had been serving out of. She stuck it in her shawl, then stood back, waiting for help to arrive.

Detective Murdoch arrived ten minutes later with his wife in tow, along with Constables Brackenreid, Higgins, and Jackson. The bigger Jackson pushed the crowd back as John began taking statements. Murdoch and Julia studied the body.

"Death was clearly something internal," Julia noted, nodding to the blood coming from the man's nose. "That's not enough from a punch or a hit, or from falling to the floor. I'll know more after the postmortem." She wrinkled her nose as something wafted toward her. "His breath smells awful, like alcohol and…something else."

"Jackson," Murdoch called. The constable came over to give Julia a hand with the body. Murdoch turned his attention to the bartender. "What did you see?" he questioned him.

The bartender looked shaken. "I-nothing, I swear! Sam was fine, one moment, he was catcalling Valerie onstage…but then he started clutching his chest, and breathing real fast. He tried to say something, but didn't get it out before he fell off his chair."

Murdoch looked around. "What was he drinking?" he asked.

"Just whiskey. The bottle is…" The bartender frowned, looking up and down the bar. "Well, it _was_ here," he said.

"Could someone have put something in his drink?"

"Not that I saw, but it gets busy up here when Val's up there in those feathers," the bartender pointed out.

Murdoch glanced at the stage, saw the woman in question talking to John. Out of the corner of his eye, the detective spotted Nina Bloom standing away from the crowd, her arms wrapped around her middle. She caught his eye. "My constable should be over here shortly," Murdoch said. "Don't go anywhere."

He made his way through the crowd and over to Nina. "What have you, Miss Bloom?" he asked.

Nina glanced around before passing him the whiskey bottle she'd snagged off the countertop. "I don't know if it's what Sam drank, but it was what was out," she said. She shivered. "Have you heard from George tonight?" she asked the detective.

Someone grabbed Murdoch by the arm, and the detective turned to see George Crabtree behind him, using a table to prop himself up, a gash bleeding across his cheek below his eye.

"Oh, George!" Nina gasped, ducking around Murdoch to help George into a chair.

The constable managed a shaky grin. "Don't suppose Dr. Ogden could come back this way?" he asked wearily. "I think I might need a stitch or two."


	11. Chapter 10

"Ow!" George winced as Dr. Ogden tugged on the final suture, his fingers grabbing for the seat of the chair he sat in. Behind him, Nina squeezed his shoulder comfortingly as she watched Dr. Ogden clean up the last bit of the wound before stepping back to examine her handiwork.

"I believe that should do it, George," Julia said as she moved from him to begin examining the body of Sam Hansen, which was lying on her table.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Nina asked George. He reached up, gave her hand a squeeze.

"Fine. Been hit by worse," he admitted.

"Did you see anyone?" Murdoch asked him.

The constable shook his head. "No, sir. Footsteps," he said. "I heard footsteps, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up with a splitting headache. No sign of Mr. Dwyer at all."

"Do you suppose he was the one that hit you?" Murdoch wondered.

George shrugged. "Can't say for sure. Either he hit me as a warning to stop poking into other people's business, or whoever whopped me got him too." Nina kissed the top of his forehead tenderly, something that did _not_ go unnoticed by the detective and doctor. "Sir, what happened at the Star Room?" George asked Murdoch.

John Brackenreid came into the morgue, his eyes widening at the sight of George's face. "Holy Mary," John breathed. "George, what happened?"

George pointed at him. "An excellent question," he replied. "Wish I knew for certain."

"What have you, John?" Murdoch questioned John. John turned to him, flicking his notebook open to the right page.

"The patrons at the bar confirm the bartender's story," he said. "One minute, Sam Hansen was fine; the next, he was on the floor. But sir, here's the interesting part." He looked over at Nina, who still wore the bottom of her costume and Murdoch's overcoat, and that was it. He swallowed. "Uh. A-a few of the other patrons reported not feeling well-dizziness, headache. Higgins can confirm it as well, sir," he said.

"Something in the air?" George offered.

"More like something in his drink," Julia said. She looked over the top of Sam Hansen. "Mr. Hansen died from methanol poisoning."

John and Nina looked lost. Julia turned to Murdoch with a shake of her head. "Do you want to take this one?" she offered.

Murdoch nodded. "Perhaps not tonight. Let's give George a chance to recover. Let's all of us reconvene tomorrow morning in my office." He looked at Nina. "Everyone."

George looked up over his shoulder at Nina with a soft smile. "I'll make sure he gets home," Nina assured everyone, helping him to his feet. George swayed a little on his feet and she looped his arm over her shoulder.

"Sir, what exactly is going on?" John asked the detective.

Murdoch looked from Sam Hansen to the bottle of confiscated whiskey. "If my hunch is correct," he said, looking over at John, "nothing good."

* * *

The next morning, Detective Murdoch, Constables Crabtree and Brackenreid, Dr. Julia Ogden, Inspector Brackenreid and Nina Bloom all converged on Murdoch's office. Julia closed the door and perched herself on a chair as Murdoch stepped out from behind his desk, chalk in hand. On his desk was the bottle of whiskey Nina had borrowed from the bar.

Murdoch rubbed his hands together. "All right. As we all know, the sale of consumable alcohol in the city is taxed for profits," he explained. "And there's been an increasing movement both here and in the United States to ban the consumption of alcohol." He glanced at Inspector Brackenreid as he said this, and the Inspector muttered something under his breath about the 'bloody Temperance League.'

Murdoch continued, "In places where alcohol is made legitimately, there is generally a place where some of the product is taken and 'denatured,' that is, it's made unfit for human consumption by adding chemicals to it to make it undrinkable." Julia produced a bottle of rubbing alcohol from her bag. "The right additives, and it's basically the same thing I used to disinfect your wound last night, George."

"So there must be a room like that at Parkington?" George clarified, and Murdoch nodded.

"Because of the chemicals and dyes that are used, that room generally only has one person with the keys and there's all sorts of rules about ventilation and such," Julia added.

"Is that what killed Sam?" Nina asked. "This…this undrinkable alcohol?"

"It's exactly what killed him, and likely poisoned the other patrons at the Star Room, in a smaller dose," Julia said. "Methanol is added to the alcohol to make it undrinkable, to make it taste bad. Poisonous, essentially."

"Why would anyone want to drink that?" John asked. "It's…cleaning supplies."

"The most important thing about it, and I believe the motive for it," Murdoch said, "is that particular alcohol isn't taxed."

"So Parkington makes it on the side and sells it to consumers without having to pay the taxes on it," Inspector Brackenreid clarified. "But it isn't safe to drink."

"So that was what was so 'special' about the case Ken delivered yesterday," Nina said. She shook her head. "I can't believe Michael would purchase something like that," she said.

"He may not have known," Julia said. "The bottle looks identical to any other Parkington Whiskey bottle-same brown bottle, same label."

"On the outside, yes," Murdoch said, pouring a glass from the bottle, and holding it to the light. The liquid inside, instead of being the golden amber of a whiskey, was colored a strange shade of gray.

"That does _not_ look appetizing," George noted. "How on earth do you get that color?"

Murdoch held up a finger. "By adding a purple to yellow," he explained.

John's eyes widened. "Violet!" he exclaimed. "That's how they're telling the difference between the real stuff and the other-purple dye."

Murdoch nodded with a smile. "Exactly."

"What does all this have to do with Brendan Walsh and Alfie Dwyer then?" George asked.

There was a knock on Murdoch's door. The group turned to see Constable Higgins poking his head in the room. "Sir, my apologies," Higgins said hurriedly. "There's someone here to file a missing persons report."

"Did you forget how to use a pen, Higgins?" Inspector Brackenreid raised an eyebrow, annoyed at the interruption.

Higgins shook his head. "No, sir. The person who wants to file it, his name is Jacob Dwyer, for his father, Alfred."

"Dwyer?" George's eyes widened. "Dwyer's missing?"

"We need to find out what role Dwyer played at Parkington Whiskey," Murdoch said. "George, why don't you get back to the distillery and look around. It's Saturday, so there shouldn't be anyone around. Let's find out who had the keys to the denaturing room."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Nina asked. "I mean, look what happened last night!"

George gave her half a smile. "I'll be fine, Nina," he told her. "As I mentioned, I've been hit harder."

"Whoever hit him won't be expectin' him to be up and around," Inspector Brackenreid added. "That hard head of his'll do him a solid."

Nina nodded, but George noticed her grip on his arm tightened. He reached over and put his hand on top of hers reassuringly.

"John, I think it's high time we bring in Connor O'Neill and make him tell us just exactly what he and Mr. Walsh were arguing about the night he was killed," Murdoch ordered.

"Yes sir," John nodded, standing.

"May want to take Jackson with you," George suggested. "Higgins as well. Connor's friends with two other wily Irishmen who might not take kindly to their friend being brought in."

John looked at his father, who thought a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Agreed."

"Inspector, can you get ahold of the Mayor and City Hall? Perhaps they can issue some kind of bulletin to anywhere in town that receives whiskey from Parkington. Discreetly, of course, since we don't have 100% proof yet."

"I'll see what I can do," Inspector Brackenreid said.

"Time is of the essence," Murdoch said. "We need to stop this before any more of that poisonous batch of whiskey gets out into Toronto."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So denaturing alcohol is a thing, it's how things like rubbing alcohol and industrial cleaners and solvents with it in it doesn't get taxed like alcohol used for recreational use, and the one example I did find online was in fact tinted purple. I don't promise I got the science 100% right. Denatured alcohol was also made during Prohibition in the US (which is a few years after this story takes place in MM time), and people did die from methanol poisoning. It makes for an interesting read.


	12. Chapter 11

George walked Nina back to the Star Room, as it was on the way from Station House 4 to Parkington Whiskey. A light rain had started to fall, and he shrugged out of his coat, giving it to Nina. "I don't like this at all," she was telling him, for what seemed like the hundredth time since they'd left the station house.

"I know," George said. "But this is the way it has to be done. You need to go back and tell your manager about that case of whiskey. We both have a job to do to help save lives."

"As thrilling as that sounds," Nina shook her head. "I couldn't bear it if something happened to you, George Crabtree."

"I have the easy part," he said with a grin. "I'm just doing a little breaking and entering. You and John have the hard part-I wouldn't want to tell my boss the liquor he bought killed a man. On the plus side...you won't have to worry about Ken Smith anymore."

Nina squeezed his hand. "Will you come see me when you're done?" she asked. "Just to let me know you're all right?" She stopped in the middle of the street and looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Please?"

He kissed the top of her head. "All right," he promised. He glanced at the clock on the exterior wall of the Bank of Toronto. "If I'm not at the Star Room by 7:00, you go to the station house and alert Detective Murdoch."

"6:59," Nina countered. "And not a moment after."

He placed her hand in the crook of his arm. "6:59 it is."

* * *

Murdoch looked up from the table as John and Constable Jackson manhandled Connor O'Neill into the interrogation room and sat him down, cuffing one wrist to the arm of the chair. "Mr. O'Neill," Murdoch greeted him. "You haven't been completely honest with me. I can hold you on obstruction of justice, and, if I try really hard, accessory to murder." He nodded at Jackson, who let himself out. John stood by the door.

"I didn't kill anybody!" Connor exclaimed. "Brendan was my best mate!"

Murdoch leaned forward. "Convince me," he said shortly, glaring at the young Irishman. "I know that you had a fight with our murder victim the night he died, a fight you failed to mention during our first encounter!"

"Because I knew how it would look!" Connor yelled, giving the wrist with the handcuff on it a sharp rattle. "Yes, Brendan and I fought, but I didn't kill him!"

"But you know who did. And I think you also know why," Murdoch said. "I suggest you start talking."

Connor stared at him. Murdoch held his gaze, until finally, Connor looked away.

"I didn't kill him," Connor said finally. "But I might as well have," he added guiltily, looking down at his hands.

John cocked his head to the side, curious. The Irishman sighed. "Brendan and I went out for a drink after work, like we usually do," Connor began. "I didn't want to-days have been busy with the loads coming in. But we always go, so...I didn't want to say no. Brendan seemed, well, nervous, I guess. He told me that he'd overheard Martin talking with Alfie Dwyer and Ken Smith that night after the end of our shift."

"What does Alfie Dwyer have to do with any of this?" Murdoch asked.

"Alfie's got the keys to the denaturing room," Connor said. "I guess Brendan said they were doing something in there…something with a separate batch of whiskey. Said they were doing something to it and selling on the side to make a few extra dollars."

Murdoch and John exchanged a knowing glance. "Did Mr. Parkington know about it?"

Connor shook his head. "I dunno, I don't know how many people were involved. Brendan only said those three. He…he kept going on about it, how it tastes horrible, and how they dye it violet to separate it from the regular batch." He sighed. "I didn't believe him. I thought, there's no way someone's going to drink that stuff, it sounds terrible. How if it was purple, that people would know about it." He shook his head. "He wanted me to go back with him, to see for myself. But I didn't...I didn't want to get involved. I just wanted to go home. I didn't believe my best friend. I should have."

* * *

George darted across the train tracks and onto the Parkington Whiskey complex. Staying close to the walls for cover, he made his way to the one door he hadn't really paid much attention to the past couple of days. The building was solid brick, with thick wooden shutters over the windows. George tugged on one of the shutters, but it didn't budge. _So much for the easy way in._ Glancing around, he stopped in front of a heavy door with a couple of different sets of locks. He studied them. _Hopefully the detective's lock picks can make quick work of these_ , he thought to himself as he pulled the set from his pocket. Setting them down in front of the door, he went to work, looking around every few seconds to make sure he was still alone.

After several minutes with the set, the door popped open, and George deposited the picks back in his pocket and pushed the door inward. The smell he was greeted with was overwhelming. It reminded him of the interior of Toronto Mercy, or right after a heavy cleaning of the morgue. Inside, the floors were brick and two large tanks filled the colossal space. George's steps echoed in the space as he let the door swing shut behind him and looked around. In one corner, he saw pallets of whiskey bottles. The giant tanks had a glass window in them, and inside, he could see clear liquid swishing against them. Then, in a far corner in the back, he spotted a couple of large bottles. He popped the lid off of one and dumped some of it onto the floor. It splashed bright purple on the floor. "Dye," he whispered, replacing the cap. "This is it. This is where they're making that other batch."

"I should've hit you harder," a voice said from behind him. "Apparently, you didn't get the hint, Mr. Jennings."

George froze.

* * *

Nina watched the clock anxiously. 6:50. She went through the motions of getting dressed and preparing for her act, but her mind was elsewhere. Lydia came storming backstage with a warning that Ken Smith was out front and to avoid it all costs.

6:54. Nina got up from her vanity and stormed out to the front, blowing by a shocked Lydia. She strode across the stage to where Ken Smith was leaning over the bar, reeking of stale cigarette smoke, chatting with Michael.

"Mikey. This man sold us poisoned whiskey," Nina informed the bartender. Both men looked at her in disbelief. "The whiskey that Sam Hansen drank last night killed him. It's not made the right way."

"What are you talking about?" Michael asked her.

Ken leaned over. "You don't know what you're talking about," he told her, his breath rolling over her in waves. "Sounds like you could use a drink."

"Not from you," Nina shot back. "Mikey, whatever he brought in tonight, throw it out."

Michael shook his head. "Nina-"

Nina ignored him and strode behind the bar, giving the case a shove. The crate dropped to the floor with a resounding crash that brought all the activity in the bar to a standstill.

Ken Smith grabbed her arm. "You had _no_ right-"

Nina jerked her arm out of his grip. "Get your sweaty hand off me!"

He reached for her again, but his arm was caught mid-rise by John Brackenreid. "It's not polite to hit a lady," he growled.

"She's no lady," hissed Ken. Before John could react, Nina slapped Ken Smith _hard_ across the face. The bigger man staggered backwards into John, who struggled to keep him upright.

"Well done, Miss Bloom. George teach you that?" John asked with a grin.

 _George_. Nina looked at the clock. 7:05. "John, you need to call Detective Murdoch. George said he would check in by 7:00 and he hasn't. I'm worried he ran into trouble at the distillery."

"George." Ken blinked. "Wait, that new loader-"

"Is a constable. And my friend," Nina hissed at him. "And he's going to run your entire operation into the _ground_."

Ken Smith lurched, lashing out with a booted foot at Nina. Mikey pulled her out of reach as John wrestled him to the ground, putting a knee in his back. "Please call Station House 4 for Detective Murdoch," John told Mikey.

A thought occurred to him. He glanced down at Ken Smith's boots. The tread pattern looked very familiar. "Miss Bloom, did this man make a delivery to you last Tuesday evening?"

"He did, I have the order slip here," Mikey replied as he hung up the phone.

John nodded. "Mr. Smith, I'm arresting you for the murder of Brendan Walsh."

"What? I didn't kill anybody!" Ken protested loudly. "It was Martin!"

"And where is Martin now?" John demanded. He pushed his knee harder into Ken's spine. The other man yelped.

"Parkington! He's at Parkington, he's getting the next batch ready!" Ken moaned into the floorboards.

Nina's hands flew to her mouth. "He's there with George. John, you've got to go help him!"

"I can't leave-"

"Constable, if there's one thing I can manage, it's a man in handcuffs." Nina gave Ken a dirty look. "Now _go_!"


	13. Chapter 12

Alexander Martin gave George a heavy handed shove and he stumbled forward into the maturation room. He twisted sideways to catch himself on his side instead of his face, rolling over the top of his bound hands. He looked around, getting his bearings. Hundreds of solid oak whiskey barrels were lined up in rows, filling the room. Martin hauled him up by the back of the shirt and shoved him again. "I've got men coming for me, Martin," George told him. "I'm with the Toronto Constabulary. You don't want to do this."

"You're right, I didn't," Martin replied, pulling him along by the arm. "I hoped that by knocking you upside the head, you'd have gotten the hint to quit looking into this."

"Where's Alfie Dwyer?" George asked him. His eyes caught the clock on the wall and noted that it was long past time for him to meet with Nina. _Hopefully she's done her job_ , he thought. "He had to have been in on it, right?"

"Alfie was the one who could keep gettin' us into the denaturing room," Martin said. He stopped in front of one of the giant oak barrels and shoved George into it. His head hit the wood and he saw stars. "But he got soft on us when Brendan Walsh found us out. He had to go."

"So Brendan Walsh found out about your operation, you choked the life out of him, and then dropped him in the barley pile," George blinked, fighting to stay on his feet.

"Ken's the one who dragged him in there," Martin shrugged. "Walsh was poking around where he shouldn't have been-kind of like you." He jabbed George in the stomach and George doubled over, gasping for a breath. Before he could get a full one in, Martin shoved something inbetween his teeth and secured it behind his head. Now completely incapacitated, George started to worry. Just a bit.

Martin pried open one of the barrels and grabbed George by the collar, yanking him over to it. George twisted, trying to get out of the man's grip. Martin shoved his head toward the opening, and George let out a muffled, strangled gasp at the beaten and bloody face of Alfie Dwyer.

"Oh," Martin said nonchalantly. "This one's occupied. Guess we'll have to find you another one."

George's blood ran cold.

* * *

Murdoch and John stood in the center of the Parkington Whiskey plaza. "Where do we start?" John glanced around, as if expecting to be bombarded from all directions. "Lots of places to look."

Murdoch's mind raced. "There," he said, pointing at the maturation room. "Lights. Perhaps that would be our best bet."

John nodded. "Okay!" The two of them ran for the building. Murdoch yanked on the door handle. It didn't budge. "Back up, John," the detective said. John stepped sideways as Murdoch drove his shoulder into the door. It creaked on the hinges. Murdoch rammed it again and the door splintered.

"Here, sir," John said, planting his boot in the weakened door and kicking it in. Murdoch nodded approvingly.

"Well done, John," he said. "George?" he yelled, looking around the room.

John spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced over quickly to see Alexander Martin running for a back exit. "Detective, I've got him!" John took off after the big foreman. "Martin. Stop!"

Murdoch surveyed the room and the rows and rows of barrels. _Dear God_ , he breathed, looking around. " _George_!" he yelled. "George, are you in here?"

John pushed off the floor and launched his six-foot frame at Alexander Martin, tackling the bigger man around the waist and sending them both to the floor. Martin rolled over, pinning John to the floorboards. John brought his knees up, driving them into Martin's backside. The foreman toppled over the top of the constable. John rolled out from under him, scrambled to his feet and pulled his revolver. "Don't move!" he ordered. "Where's George?"

Martin grinned, wiping a trail of blood from the corner of his mouth. "He's around," he said, breathing heavily. "Better find him tonight; otherwise it'll take you about ten years."

John's eyes widened. "Detective!" he yelled, never taking his eyes off Martin. "The barrels! Check the barrels!"

Murdoch stood in the middle of an aisle. Surrounded by barrels of whiskey. "That doesn't exactly narrow it down," he muttered.

And then he heard it. A couple of hard thunks, coming from somewhere around him. "George!" he called out. "George, is that you?"

He waited. _Behind me_. Murdoch turned, walked down the row, listening carefully.

_Thunk._

_Thunk._

Then he spotted it. Propped next to one of the barrels was a thin crowbar. Murdoch picked it up. "Once more, George," he begged.

 _Thunk_.

Murdoch prodded the end of the crowbar into the lid of the barrel nearest him on the bottom row and pulled back.

The lid popped off and he was bent down instantly, pulling his friend from the barrel. "John! I've got him!" he announced. "He's here!"

He tugged the gag from George's mouth and the constable breathed deep. "George, are you all right?" Murdoch demanded.

George shook his head. "I could really use a drink, sir," he said weakly, grinning at the reproachful look on Detective Murdoch's face.

* * *

"Martin won't say a word," Inspector Brackenreid crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Murdoch.

"That's fine, because Ken Smith is doing enough talking for the both of them," Murdoch replied as the two of them watched McNabb and Higgins haul Martin out to the cells. "At least now Henry Parkington will have a hard time sweeping his misbehaviors at the distillery under the rug; I would imagine a deeper inquiry into Mr. Smith's statements will reveal that he had some knowledge of what his men were doing. Between that and the rest of the evidence, he'll most likely be ousted as president, and Martin will most likely hang."

"Stuffing Martin in an oak barrel for ten years would be a bit more fitting," George said, leaning on Nina Bloom in his desk chair. Nina had a white knuckle grip on his arm and hadn't let go since Julia Ogden had brought her to the station.

"Right alongside Ken Smith," Nina said darkly. George rested his head on her shoulder and she relaxed slightly.

He looked up at her. "Did I hear right, that you _slapped_ Ken Smith?"

She nodded, brushing a piece of his hair off his forehead. "And broke an entire case of whiskey." Nina frowned. "Which I hope isn't coming out of my paycheck."

George looked her over proudly. "Good thing you didn't get ahold of Alexander Martin," he said with a smile.

John Brackenreid leaned against the doorframe of the bullpen, Connor O'Neill standing next to him. "If I'd said something sooner…" Connor shook his head. "If I had just believed Brendan…" He looked at John. "He'd still be alive right now to testify. What do I tell Violet?" he wondered sadly. "If I tell her about leaving Brendan to look on his own..."

John put a hand on his shoulder. "You were scared, and you couldn't have known. You'll find the right words," he told Connor. "All you can do now is be the friend that she needs. No more secrets."

The other man nodded thoughtfully. John caught George looking over Nina's shoulder, nodding approvingly.

"All right, it's gettin' late and we can wrap all this up tomorrow," Inspector Brackenreid clapped his hands together. "Crabtree, go home and get some rest."

"Gladly, sir," George agreed tiredly. Nina steadied him as he climbed to his feet. He kissed the top of her hair and gave a two-fingered wave to his superiors as Nina gingerly walked him out.

The Inspector looked at John. "Well done, John."

His oldest son grinned back at him. "Do I get to tell Mother about all this?" John asked.

The Inspector eyed him. "I can think of a few parts you might want to leave out. Like the fact that it was at a whiskey distillery. Or the fact that alcohol was invol-you know what?" Thomas looked at John. "Let's just keep this one to ourselves." John chuckled.

Detective Murdoch slipped an arm around his wife. "Shall, we Doctor?" he asked her.

She smiled. "I finally get you home at a decent hour?" she teased him. "Whatever shall we do with all of this free time?"

Murdoch raised an eyebrow as she started leading him toward the door. "Did you have some ideas on that?" he asked her under his breath.

Julia bit her lip with a smile. "One or two, perhaps," she confessed.

Murdoch swallowed. Even after everything that had happened that evening…he felt like he could use a drink right now.

Just, perhaps, not whiskey. Murdoch had a feeling it would be a long time before he could look at the stuff the same way again.


End file.
